


surpassing comfort & security

by likecharity



Category: British Comedy RPF, British Singers RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-19
Updated: 2008-01-19
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: They did go back to his dressing room, true, but it was for a cup of tea and a chat, not wild sex on the awful threadbare floral sofa.





	surpassing comfort & security

**Author's Note:**

> This is just ridiculously soppy, but I couldn't help it. I started writing this after Patrick's appearance on Never Mind The Buzzcocks. Title from Patrick Wolf's 'Wind in the Wires'.

If he had come out of the closet before the age of twenty-one, or if he had been able to accept his homosexuality during his teenage years, or if he had even let himself become close with a boy when he was younger—this, Simon thinks, is the sort of relationship he might have had many years ago.

He always thought that if he ended up getting off with a guest after filming an episode of _Never Mind The Buzzcocks_ (and he has thought of it, often, particularly back then, when Noel Fielding was a team captain), it'd be a seedy, awful, slutty thing, backstage in his dressing room with clothes strewn all over the place and hands clamped over mouths to keep anyone from overhearing through the ridiculously thin walls.

But Patrick Wolf isn't like that. Patrick Wolf is _nothing_ like that.

* * *

They did go back to his dressing room, true, but it was for a cup of tea and a chat, not wild sex on the awful threadbare floral sofa. And it wasn't even there that they kissed. Patrick put down his mug (going out of his way to make sure it went on a newspaper, despite the several rather obvious coffee rings on the table already) and reached across to Simon, gently touched his hand, and asked, "Would you like to come back to mine for a drink?"

Simon was a little startled by the invitation, but accepted, bustling about the room for his keys, his satchel, his scarf and his coat, while Patrick stood, rather gangly and awkward, waiting for him in the doorway.

* * *

A pretty, round-faced, dark-haired girl was sitting on the kitchen counter when Patrick lead him in. She was listlessly stirring a saucepan of rice on the stove, kicking her legs against the cabinets beneath her. Patrick introduced her as his sister, introduced Simon as simply 'Simon', and the girl shook his hand warmly and said hello. She whispered something in Patrick's ear when she thought Simon wasn't looking, and Patrick giggled in a way that made Simon feel a little paranoid.

(He still doesn't know what she said. When he asks, Patrick pretends not to remember the incident at all.)

Patrick lead Simon into the living room, clutching a bottle of cherry brandy in one hand and two glasses in the other. Simon sat gingerly in an armchair, and Patrick at the piano, tinkling away absentmindedly as he spoke, clumsy smatterings of _Für Elise_ and snatches of songs that Simon knew but could not place. He assumed they were Patrick's own.

They talked awkwardly, not used to each other, and Simon was thankful for the drinks and the piano to give them something to occupy themselves with in the silences. There was something strange about feeling not quite comfortable in Patrick's presence, but wanting to spend time with him anyway. But as night drew in and the bottle of cherry brandy grew steadily empty, Simon made his moves to leave. Patrick didn't seem to be in any hurry, first finishing off a sweet and careful little tune on the piano, and then finishing off his drink before escorting Simon to the door.

He scribbled down his phone number and address as Simon stood in the doorway, shivering in the cold as he tangled his scarf carelessly around his neck. Patrick turned, laughing at him as he handed over the details, written on the back of a folded-over piece of sheet music.

"It won't keep you warm like that," he said softly, reaching forwards, long pale fingers lifting Simon's scarf from where it was draped over his shoulders. He wound it around Simon's neck carefully, then gently stroked Simon's cheek with his warm hand.

Simon laughed nervously and hated himself for it.

Patrick leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, and Simon could smell his sweet brandy breath and feel his soft lips against his skin. Simon turned almost automatically, and their lips met in a chaste kiss, short and sweet.

"Goodnight, Simon."

Simon found his way to the tube station somewhat dizzily. Strangers' faces drifted by him, blurred and insignificant. The churning howls and whistles of the tube flew past his ears meaninglessly and echoed in his head.

Back in his flat, he went straight up to his bedroom and rummaged through his CD collection before finally finding his old Patrick Wolf albums under his bed. He put _Wind In The Wires_ on, and stood, still in his scarf and coat, in front of his reflection in the mirror on the back of his door. His cheeks were tinged pink with something more than just the cold, and his face was sparkling all over with glitter.

* * *

Simon has gone to a gig of Patrick's only once. A friend was really into him, and persuaded Simon to come along. It was a long time ago, when Patrick was all dark hair, torn shirts and tatty black waistcoats. Simon remembers being impressed by the mysterious lyrics and the curious tangle of genres that Patrick seemed to spread himself across. His music was like nothing Simon had ever encountered, and he had to admit he was a little bit enchanted by Patrick Wolf.

It bothers him a little, now, when he remembers the way he used to automatically state Patrick's name when people asked what sort of music he liked, following it up with "Oh, you won't've heard of him," and a pretentious smirk.

* * *

Patrick seems so lanky and awkward, tall and out-of-place no matter where he is, that Simon is surprised that all of this disappears when Patrick is having sex.

When Patrick is having sex, he is so relaxed, so comfortable with himself, his body, his brain. His movements are swift and smooth. He's gentle by instinct, but when Simon murmurs that he wants it harder, Patrick obliges, seamlessly changing speed or position without a second thought.

Simon hasn't slept with a lot of men, and he thinks he'd rather like it if Patrick had been his first. He likes watching Patrick's hips buck back and forth, likes watching his red hair hang and sway in front of his low-cast eyes. He likes the fact that sometimes Patrick won't remove all his trinkets before sex, and that sometimes a forgotten necklace will swing and jangle with every thrust.

He likes the face Patrick makes when he's coming, and the little noises he makes, unembarrassed. He likes that, if Patrick comes first, he will always curl up close to him afterwards and reach down to finish him off, no matter how exhausted he seems.

He gets used to waking up with glitter all over every inch of his skin.

* * *

Mid-February, early morning, they lie in bed together, limbs entwined and sheets tangled. Snow falls outside, drifting white and dreamlike past the window.

"You've never been rude to me," Patrick says, quiet and thoughtful as he always is around this time. He plays with Simon's curls absentmindedly.

"What?"

"I watched an episode of your quiz when I found out I was going to be a guest," Patrick says, "and you're rude to _everybody._ "

Simon chuckles and nuzzles into Patrick's shoulder, tracing his unicorn tattoo with a lazy finger. "Especially weirdo indie-types."

"I thought you'd be a right wanker to me," Patrick says.

Simon stops and looks up at him. "Why would I be a wanker to you?"

Patrick laughs, dismisses the question with a wave of an elegant hand. "I still keep expecting to discover the link between TV-Simon and Simon lying in bed with me," he says softly.

Simon says nothing, but frowns quietly to himself.

"I'm going to work on our song today," Patrick says, changing the subject rather suddenly as he untangles himself from Simon's body and clambers out of bed, reaching for a handful of crumpled paper and one of those instruments he has that Simon can't even name.

"Our what?"

"The song I wrote about you," says Patrick, with a sheepish grin. "Didn't I mention it?"

Simon feels a smile creeping across his lips. "No," he says.

Patrick gives a one-shouldered little shrug and then turns back to his music, perched on the edge of the bed, naked and concentrating.

Simon rather likes dating a musician, and he never thought he'd think that.

* * *

There's something weird about their relationship that Simon can't quite put his finger on. It's not bad-weird, it's good-weird, but he just can't work out why. And then one day, while the two of them are sitting in the garden with a bottle of white wine and Patrick is trying to teach Simon how to play the ukelele (and Simon is failing spectacularly), it becomes clear.

"I think," says Patrick, leaning back in the patio chair, "that this is the least fucked-up relationship I've ever been in."

 _Oh, yes,_ thinks Simon, as he sets the ukelele down and pulls Patrick close to him for a kiss, _that's what it is._  



End file.
